


Care

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Longitudinal Cohort [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babies, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, john is a drama queen too, john's shoulder is a hot mess, sherlock can be thoughtful, sherlock is a butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had a bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit JUST LIKE SHERLOCK.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

John is the caretaker. It’s what he does best: protect and heal. Nurture. Well, when he’s not punching someone in the face. But John is definitely the caretaker in the relationship. From that first day. Granted, Sherlock saved him from putting a bullet in his temple that day, and saved him countless times since then at his own risk, and continues to save him daily, but that’s more of a subtle caretaking. Few outside John would see it as such, especially since John is the one who ensures Sherlock eats and sleeps and generally functions like a human being. And those are on Sherlock’s _good_ days.

Sherlock may have saved John from a bullet that day, but John got him to gain almost two stone in six months, and that will always be one of the things John is most proud of.

John is also a caretaker outside of Baker Street. It’s what he does; it’s his utility in this world. That and shooting people. But this is the one he talks openly about. He likes it, he’s good at it.

John takes care of people. It’s what he does.

Sometimes though he doesn’t want to do it. Sometimes he’s done it for so long, he mentally and physically can’t do it. So when his nerves were frayed after fighting with no fewer than six “thinking mothers” who refused to get their children the appropriate jabs (he offered to buy them a ticket to Indonesia so they could witness some measles cases first hand), he wondered why he even bothered anymore. He used to be a trauma surgeon, dammit, and it’s not like they needed the money. Then when his shoulder very literally seized up and his entire left arm burned and tingled (he actually dropped his otoscope), he remembered why he was no longer a trauma surgeon. By the time a very sick little boy threw up on him (“Norwalk virus, just keep him hydrated, bring him in if nothing stays down overnight”), John was very ready to throw in the towel completely and just outright quit the surgery.

He was better than projectile vomit from a five-year-old and ear infections and thirty-year-old women who thought the fact that they’d given birth made them more qualified than his medical degree.

Needless to say, by the time left the clinic (in borrowed scrubs with his clothes in a bag and no probably infected himself), John was feeling very dejected. He did still plummet into dark moods; unlike Sherlock’s, they just needed the right combination of triggers all at the same time.

“Motherfucker,” John murmured under his breath as he entered the packed tube car. Busier than usual. Of course. And of course it slowed and stopped for a full twenty minutes. Something about trash on the rails. Of course.

And sure enough, as soon as he exited the station at Euston, the clouds opened. Just what his now spasming shoulder needed: more rain.

By the time he made it around the corner to the flat he was soaked to the bone, and the cramping in his shoulder was rapidly moving up into his neck. Even getting the door open took more (painful) effort than it should have.

John just wanted to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea and some take-away, and put something that would fully numb his brain on the telly. Sherlock-cuddles optional, although his warm weight would be very welcome considering the chill John seemed to develop in all of ten minutes.

Of course that was not to be. _Of course_.

When John entered the sitting room, it looked as if a newspaper depository had exploded. Papers covered the sofa, Sherlock’s chair, _his_ chair, the coffee table, Christ, there were even some stapled ( _stapled_ for fuck’s sake) to the wall.

And, in the middle of the room, Sherlock was sat on the floor, a paper with wet ink blots spread in front of him and his hand stuck in a jar.

“Ah, John, you’re home,” Sherlock said blandly, turning to eye him in the entry way. His hair was a mess and there were specks of ink on his face. “I seem to have gotten myself—”

John didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. He dropped his soggy bag on the floor and trudged into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

He loved Sherlock, he did, truly, even when he was at his most ornery and thoughtless. But did it have to be today? And John knew, he knew that if he’d spent a single minute in that sitting room he’d end up saying something he regretted. What was it Ella always said? _“Remove yourself from the situation.”_ That was really the best course of action, lest he yell and shout and send Sherlock into an epic sulk on top of the epic mess he made of the front room. John didn’t have the resolve to deal with that.

Instead, he shut himself in the bedroom—which was freezing, Sherlock must have turned down the furnace because _“heat slows my mind, John_ ”—and resolved to just wile away in the bed. His mood would be better in the morning. It usually was. He just needed some time and some rest. Of course, he realized he was now stuck in here; if he ventured out for a cup of tea or a sandwich he’d get wrangled into whatever Sherlock was doing. No thank you.

John’s shoulder pulled and cramped as he gingerly tried to pull the scrub top over his head. Not good. The colder and damper the weather got, the worse it was. His age didn’t help either. Briefly he had considered calling a physical therapist to work on it again, but then something came up. Something always came up. The dresser drawer was painfully heavy when he pulled it open.

John’s phone pinged.

 _John. I required your assistance_. _SH._

John immediately threw his phone in the open drawer and slammed it shut with his hip. He couldn’t even muster a smile at the initials Sherlock still included in his texts. Normally he found it adorable; tonight it seemed to exemplify how completely oblivious Sherlock was.

John settled on the bed—in the middle, goddammit—gasping out loud as another spasm wracked the left side of his body. He really had to call tomorrow. Minutes ticked by as a he stewed. His job, his ignorant lover, the fact that the entire left side of his body seemed completely unwilling to cooperate.

The low light of the room revealed a new crack in the ceiling above the bed. Great.

In the months after he was invalided home, John had felt despair and uselessness to the level of wondering if it would be better to end it all. In the months—hell, _years—_ after Sherlock “died,” he’d felt the same. He felt it briefly again, sitting beside Sherlock’s bed as he recovered from Mary’s gunshot wound. He knew in his head this wasn’t the same. This was a bad night. But that didn’t stop the pull in his gut as he wondered if the rest of his nights would be just like this. The familiar fog, of “is this it?” Before he knew it, John was blinking back tears and trying to breathe his way through a wave of nausea.

In the next room, the pipes rattled as the shower came on. John swallowed hard and clenched his fist. He just needed to fall asleep. It’d be better in the morning. It always was.

An indeterminate amount of time later the bedroom door clicked open and quietly shut. John resolutely did not open his eyes, but he heard the bedside lamp switch on and the sound of the curtains being pulled shut. He felt the bed dip as Sherlock sat beside him.

“Up,” was all Sherlock said, gently pulling at his arm. John grimaced as his muscles immediately cramped when he shifted as little as he could. He heard Sherlock hum, then long fingers pried him up off the mattress, just enough space for something delightfully warm to slide under his shoulder. A hot water bottle.

“Your shoulder will feel better propped, John,” Sherlock stated, grabbing a pillow from against the footboard and pushing it under his arm. His joint protested, but only a little. John cracked one eye open just as Sherlock laid a hot compress on his shoulder. It draped down his chest and felt delightful.

“Tea and some co-comadol, I think. Then cold in a few hours,” Sherlock looked down on him, mouth pressed into a straight line. He had changed into fresh pajamas and his hair was still damp. His cheeks glowed pink from the hot water of the shower. The low light and the concern in his eyes softened his features considerably.

John quirked a smile. “Since when are you an expert?”

“Since I’ve been watching you take care of your shoulder for years.” Sherlock gently patted his arm and smiled, a bit sadly. “You should really call for physical therapy tomorrow.”

“Ugh, I know. But I hate it.”

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Sherlock immediately popped off the bed with an announcement of “tea!” and darted out of the room.

Well. That was unexpected.

When Sherlock bustled in a few minutes later, he was carrying a tray of not only tea, but also biscuits and a bottle of co-comadol. He set it on the night stand and opened the bottle, shaking two pills into this hand. He sat on the bed, this time on John’s right side. “Is the heat helping?”

“Mmmm, yes love.”

“Good,” Sherlock lifted his noise imperiously. “You’re no use on cases if your arm doesn’t work.”

“Heh, right.” John chuckled. The heat actually was helping. But more than that, it was that Sherlock brought him the heat.

“And everything else.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Hmmmm?”

“You appear to have had a bad day, on top of your shoulder,” Sherlock looked at his lap. “So, yes. Um. Everything else.”

John knew this was Sherlock’s awkward attempt to offer a shoulder if John needed it. God, he was shite at this. So was John, frankly. He took pity on him.

“Just a bad day, love,” John reached out and patted Sherlock’s thigh, which was delightfully warm through his threadbare pajamas. “We need to get you some new pajamas.”

“I like these,” Sherlock lifted a cup of tea and shifted on the bed. “Here. Painkillers. Over-the-counter and on the whole ineffective.”

“Codeine will help, Sherlock,” John lifted his head off the pillow just long enough to swallow the pills with a long gulp of hot tea from the cup offered him. “Codeine and some sleep.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock took the cup away and set it back on the tray. “Let me know if you want me to order take-away. I’ll come back and reheat the compresses in a while.” He made to stand but John reached out for his wrist.

“Stay, honeybee.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and looked back at him. His cheeks flushed a bit at the endearment—they always did, even now—but his eyes were perplexed. “You said you needed sleep.”

“Can sleep with you here, Sherlock. I usually sleep better, in fact.”

“Oh.”

“Here,” John attempted to move over but his shoulder pulled miserably. “Fuck…”

“Don’t, John. The compresses are distributed to allow adequate heat to your shoulder girdle.”

“Alright, idiot,” John settled back into the mattress. “C’mere.”

Sherlock sank down to the bed, folding himself remarkably small against John’s side. It always greatly amused him that miles of lanky limbs could tuck in so efficiently. He hesitated a bit, but when John wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s shoulder he pushed his head under John’s chin. The warm, familiar scent of Sherlock—lemon and basil from his ridiculously overpriced shower products, a bit of masculine musk, and the faint hint of laboratory equipment that always seemed to linger on his skin—almost instantly soothed John’s nerves. Suddenly, everything seemed alright again.

They laid quietly for a few moments, Sherlock’s long foot gently rubbing against John’s calf.

“How did you get your hand out of the jar?” John murmured into Sherlock’s hair several content minutes later.

“Oil.”

“Not my gun oil?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I used olive oil.”

“Oh, obviously.” John gently scratched Sherlock’s shoulder through his dressing gown. The co-comadol and Sherlock’s warm weight against his side was already making him feel delightfully sleepy. “Did you clean up the mess?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. No, then. “You seemed to require more immediate attention.”

“I’m still going to make you clean it up.”

“Hrmph,” Sherlock nuzzled a bit under John’s chin. He laid a large hand on John’s belly, inching a bit under his t-shirt. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit, but not enough to move,” John mumbled. He felt warm and heavy. Sherlock’s hand drifted down a bit, under the waistband of his pants. He stoked gently, calloused fingertips running over the soft skin of John’s belly and around the trail of hair that started at his navel. John knew the act wasn’t meant to be sexual, and it wasn’t; it was grounding, continued caretaking even though John was the technically the one doing the cradling. “What did you eat today?”

“Mrs. Hudson brought me a sandwich.” Sherlock’s breath was warm down John’s neck.

“’Just a sandwich’”?

Sherlock shrugged against him. “I was busy.”

“I’m sure. We should probably order something, then.”

“Mmmrf. You shouldn’t move.”

“You could do it.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“Right,” John pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “Can you at least be arsed to get the afghan? I know you turned down the heat.”

“I can’t think when I’m hot.”

“You’re so full of shit. Get the afghan.”

Sherlock grumbled but pushed himself up, quickly grabbing the soft wool afghan Mummy Holmes had crocheted for them (well, technically John, as a thank you for nursing Sherlock back to health) last winter. He draped it over John, taking care to be gentle as he tucked it under his left arm then settled back against his side.

“Better,” John’s fingers found their way into Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock’s head found its way back under John’s chin.

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbled, his chest vibrating against John’s side as his hand tucked back under John’s shirt.

“Thank you, love.” John gently scratched at Sherlock’s scalp. He didn’t answer, but curled tighter into John, his toes twitching against his calf.

Much better.

**Author's Note:**

> We've all had days like these, even mentally healthy folks; the days where every little thing just piles on and then you get melodramatic and a day that started out as a good mental health day turns to shit. 
> 
> Also OMG I WROTE SOMETHING WHERE JOHN'S DICK DOESN'T END UP IN SHERLOCK'S BUTT.


End file.
